


The Spirit Within the Vael

by Taffia



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Community: swooping_is_bad, DA2, Gen, Kirkwall, Starkhaven, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffia/pseuds/Taffia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Vael, after his troubled and rebellious childhood, was finally finding some solidarity within the walls of Kirkwall's Chantry.  It made it even more difficult for Grand Cleric Elthina to deliver that fateful news that would send the pious nobleman spiraling out of control once more.  As he began the hunt for those that murdered his family, only one thing rang clear to him, "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."  He would have his justice, his vengeance...one way or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit Within the Vael

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vehlr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/gifts).



 

  


 

His was a heart of valor.

He knew it. Deep within his soul, this was the greatest truth he could ever hold.

He had felt it as a child playing with his brothers. They were always pranking the Chantry brother, Martin. Newts in his tea. Crickets under his bed. But every sermon, in the shadow of their parents, they were as well behaved as three lordlings should be. Heads bowed. Hands folded. Shoulders hunched in penitence. There had always been something in that hall that called to him. Was it the words of the Chant of Light? The soft yet sonorous voice of Chanter Martin as he recited one canto after another? Or was it the fragile but potent wisdom of Andraste, herself, coming to him from the heavens beyond? For such a small boy, it had always been too much to consider, and outside that sanctuary it was no longer relevant to him.

He had seen it in his grandfather's eyes as he learned of the family bow, the mighty and intricate recurve that would one day be his to string. Only when he was strong enough. Only when he was a man. Until then, he practiced with something lesser from the moment he awoke at dawn until something more pressing tempted him away. He remembered being able to hit the eyeslit of a helmet from atop the ramparts, relishing in the knowledge that, should the city ever be besieged, he would lead the Starkhaven Militia to a stunning victory. He would live up to his family's expectations. And he was yet but a boy.

He had known it even in the moment of his greatest shame when his father had banished him, condemned him, to the Chantry. His mother had been there, weeping from the mixed feelings consuming her heart as she accepted that her youngest had not only squandered their money and patience but their love as well. He was more well-known in brothels and pubs than at court, and such would never do. Not for their family. Not for him. He had sought his grandfather's protection, praying that the mighty Prince of Starkhaven would prove a strong voice for the cause of his youngest and most rebellious grandson. What he found was that same unshakeable faith that flowed through his family's veins.

“Would that I could trade all this for a life of contemplation,” the wizened old man had said, gesturing to the intricate tapestries, the plush carpets, the marble statuary, and all the other finery filling the royal palace. “But I accept if that cannot be so. The Maker ordained a place for each of us, Sebastian. Perhaps this is His way of leading you to yours.”

He had rebelled against the Chantry. Despite his faith, he refused the discipline, sneaking off in the night to meet his old friends, his old loves, to tell bawdy tales over hard drinks and indulge fast women. He had returned once with a black eye and a swollen jaw. Grand Cleric Elthina had said nothing to him about it, merely scowled knowingly, but it was enough to put him on the defensive. He was young and fiery. Above all, he was proud and still wasted from drink. He was a Lord of Starkhaven. He was a Vael. He had knocked the blighter out that so dared to insult the pubkeeper's daughter, and he felt himself more than justified for breaking the rules if it meant saving the damsel in distress.

Elthina had rarely verbally chastised him. There had never truly been a need. He may have acted out with impunity, but if any were the best at making the young Lord feeling worthless, it was himself, alone. It was a broken road into manhood, but he followed it nonetheless. The Grand Cleric's patience was boundless, and the day eventually came (after another botched outing) that he returned to the Chantry for good. His choice, his own free will.

As days passed, he found that he actually couldn't wait to tell his grandfather. Sebastian finally was feeling at peace, probably for the first time in all his life. This is what the Prince had meant. This is what he would have given up everything for. A life of contemplation without the petty squabbling of the nobles...or even the heady stink of a tavern. Sebastian frequently lost himself in the steady cadence of the Chant of Light. He relished in the exhilaration it sparked deep in his soul, filling his heart with such feelings that he never thought he'd experience.

His fate was totally in the Maker's hands. And that suited him just fine.

Peace can never be appreciated without strife. Not even in the Maker's house. Sebastian was immersed in Andrastean lore, knee-deep in books from the Chantry library, the day Elthina approached him with the sadness of ages imprinted on her face. Her steps made no sound, her robes no rustle, but the young Chantry brother sensed her arrival nonetheless. He looked up from his reading with a questioning look to his intense blue eyes. He didn't actually need to ask the question for Elthina to provide the answer.

“We received a missive from Starkhaven, Sebastian,” she said, her usually strong voice quaking.

Sebastian immediately set his studies aside and stood, coming around the table to stand before the Grand Cleric.

“Is it my grandfather?” he asked eagerly. “Did he receive my last letter? Have they forgiven me—my family?” The words spilled out despite his mental acknowledgment of the woman's bearing. Her sadness, he felt, had to be for some other reason.

“Your family is gone, Sebastian,” Elthina replied. “It is a wonder that the message reached us at all.”

“What...? Gone?”

“There is turmoil in Starkhaven. Assassins came and--”

Sebastian's face immediately darkened, and he pushed his way past her and out of the library. His steps were swift as he rushed to his chambers and resolutely dug out his armor and began to buckle it on. He'd no need of the white enameled plate in so long...but he felt complete once it was securely fastened, like it was a part of him. He didn't even notice that Elthina had followed him.

“There is nothing you can do,” she pleaded, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder. He shook it off as he grabbed up the bow the Templars had given him. “It is a day's hard ride to Starkhaven. By the time you get there--”

“I will _make_ them tell me who is responsible,” he growled, his face practically contorted into a snarl.

“It is too late, Sebastian!”

“Did Andraste not proclaim, 'Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just'?”

“Sebastian--”

“If Starkhaven is in turmoil, it is my duty—as a Chantry brother and as a Vael—to keep the peace. Justice _will_ be done, Your Grace. I can assure you of that.”

And he stormed out of the Chantry one more time.

Starkhaven was, indeed, in a state of chaos when he reached it, but not in the way he had expected at first. He had ridden his horse to exhaustion, abandoning it to the stable at the first inn he found at the edge of the sprawling, white stone city. There was no one around to pay for the service. Without stopping, he continued on foot, drawing up his fur-lined hood to conceal his likeness from any that might recognize him. His destination was his home, the royal palace, and he would find a way in. One way or another.

Most of the streets were empty, but crowds thronged in the main thoroughfares the closer he came to the city center. There was a low murmur rumbling through it all, and it didn't take long to realize what it was about. Everyone was passing along information, news as it was coming to them from the people further ahead. He continued to his course and opened his ears to listen.

The Prince was dead, he and all his heirs slain in the night just a couple of days previously. That was old news in comparison to some of the other things being said, that a distant cousin was the most likely candidate. Some nobles disputed this, claiming his blood too thin or his qualifications inferior. It would be discussed, deliberated, but the people had nothing to fear. Starkhaven would find one worthy to take the place of the late Prince, Sebastian's beloved grandfather, and the city would endure in its greatness.

It was all a load of hogswallow and bad politics. Sebastian's eyes narrowed when he finally came into view of the palace, the massive balcony from which all important speeches of state were given. There, standing on the gleaming white marble, was a collective of the wealthiest nobles, the inner circle, those that fancied themselves the wisest and most capable. The young Lord's eyes scanned over them: Marlowe, Fairchild, Harrimann, Porth. Others, too, stood there with stoic postures but hungry eyes. This was their chance, he knew, to take that which was most coveted.

This was _his_ chance to rescue what was his. His legacy. His family's honor.

Sebastian skirted the crowd and made his way to the alley that eventually led to the servants' entrance. It was where he had sneaked in and out of the palace countless times, and he doubted it would be any different, now. The only thing that worried him was the slight change in the guard. He would have expected to see more of them about, tighter formations and heavily armed. What he saw was little more than a skeleton crew at parade rest. It bothered him more than a little, but it made his task all the easier.

He was in the kitchens before he realized it. Foot traffic was minimal inside, only a small handful of servants still moving about actually performing their duties. He even heard the cook singing, high and bright, as she had every day for as long as he could remember. Her voice carried a tune so well, even if it was one of mourning. Out of everyone that lived and worked within these walls, few—if any—had been as loyal to his grandfather as the aged, elven cook.

She was alone by the great stone ovens. Her white hair was bound up tightly away from her face, faded _vallaslin_ tracing along her brow and chin. The song she sang was in elvhen, but the young Lord knew enough to identify the dirge for the dead. She kneaded dough in time to the music, her hands and arms working harder than they needed to. Eventually, she had to pause to wipe her eyes, tears glittering through the flour dust.

“Morelle?” Sebastian's voice was hushed, hesitant, as he slowly stepped closer to her across the room. He pushed his hood back so that she could see his face. And he dearly hoped despite the years of trust that it wouldn't somehow damn him.

The elf looked up, startled. Her brown eyes fixed on him in the light of the cook fires, taking in the deep auburn of his hair and the lines of his youthful face, sagging with the weight of his sadness.

“Milord Sebastian!” she gasped. “How did you—you shouldn't be here. You must go, my boy, now!”

“Morelle, I'm not going anywhere. Not now, not ever, not until my family has been avenged.”

The old woman shook her head in dismay. “There is nothing you can do. Not against them.” She jerked her head upwards where, through stone and earth and wrought iron, the nobles were still addressing the masses. “And they pulled it off without even getting their hands dirty.”

“Who was in charge? Who arranged it?”

Morelle shrugged, returning to her work to get several more loaves into the oven to ensure they would be ready for dinner. People still needed to eat no matter what was happening in the realm of politics. “I just know whoever it was had the money to do it. They didn't just hire a couple of assassins. They hired proper mercenaries.” Once she had the loaves in the oven, she dug around in the pocket of her apron. She pulled forth a small scrap of fabric and handed it to him. “One of the girls found that caught on some splintered furniture.”

Sebastian took the scrap and peered at it, analyzing the brown and red insignia on a black field. He couldn't identify it. It was the blazon of no group he knew, and the harsh lines reminded him more of something that came out of Kirkwall than Starkhaven. He had his connections through the Chantry. He would start there. But the clue forward certainly didn't diminish the pure rage that boiled within his heart.

He thanked Morelle, drew his hood back up, and strode out. There were no heart-felt goodbyes, no more tears or questions why. This was not the time for that. The young Lord—no, young _Prince_ —had to find out what happened to his family. And he would find out, no matter what it was he had to do.

His grandfather had a heart of valor. And with every breath of life in his body, Sebastian Vael hoped and prayed that indomitable spirit hadn't died with him.


End file.
